The Crash

It’s
About as
Ironic
As contemplating
Death on
Prom night

All of a sudden
The kid who’s been
Kicking
The back of your seat
Won’t
Get his
First
Kiss

The jackass who
Took up all the
Space
In the
Overhead
Is your
Priest

It’s all floating
Down
Now
And you wonder
If
Even if
They find
Your teeth
They’ll surely
Find
Your nail clippers
Perhaps
A
Wedding band
That resides
In your
Pocket
On these types of
Trips

The oxygen slips
In
Eyes are big
Round
Quarter machine
Prizes

You wish
You could give
Them to that
Kid behind
You

Where is his mother?

Head’s against
The stiff
Two-ply
Polyester
Of the flight attendant

Who the hell lets their five-year old fly?
Alone?

TV dinners
Midnight reruns of Soul Train
In that
Fuzzy color

The beach
The prowling link of
Mountains

Kiss
Touch
Feel
Leave
Arrive
Taste
Smell
Give
Take
Sound
Color
Rhythm
Fly, fly
Fall
Fall
Feel
Fell
Fe--


Anonymous
01:02:00 AM